


Lead on, Virgil.

by CantSpeakFae



Series: Once More With Glitter [6]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Awkward Tension, Demonic Possession, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's going to get worse before it gets better, Randall's coming out of his cage and he's confused as hell, Referenced violence, Reunions, They both have feelings they don't know what to do with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: Giles and Randall are finally reunited in Sunnydale's airport, but that doesn't mean a happy ending is on the horizon. With so much time having passed, do they really still know each other? How can they reconcile their old feelings with the new sense of distrust hanging in the air between them?





	Lead on, Virgil.

After leaving Jenny a brief but effusive apology on her answering machine for breaking their plans for the evening, and covering the hole on the library table with a rather fetching potted plant, Giles runs home.   
  
He cleans his already spotless apartment until it shines, and fills his hip flask with his second best scotch.   
  
So fortified, he drives to the private hangar at the far end of Sunnydale's small airport, and sits in his car, sipping scotch, and waiting for night to fall...and Randall Evans to arrive.

Darkness has only been settled over Sunnydale for an hour or two when the plane comes in. 

It’s a small craft, privately owned by the Watcher’s Council for occasions such as these, normally used only for transporting the demon or vampire that will be used as the Cruciamentum of a Slayer. It touches down smoothly and for a long while, nothing happens. No movement at all. The doors do not open.    
  
And then, suddenly, the emergency hatch opens and the slide inflates with a loud hiss of air, creating a path down to the ground. A path that a young man in tweed is shoved down. He slides down, awkwardly and jumps up like a mad cat, hissing and spitting in his surprise, jumping to his feet as soon as he’s on the ground and shaking his fist at the man who pushed him.   
  
Randall stands lazily at the hatch, looking down at Ben with a wide smile that’s hard to see in the dark.   
  
“So...it’s safe then? Excellent.”   
  
And, with a smart little salute, he tosses himself down, too, laughing loudly as he bounces against the plastic-scented slide, and lands with much more grace than the poor Watcher he’d tested it with. His feet planted firmly on the ground, he looks around to see where Ronald is hiding, sure that he's going to come barreling out of the darkness, any second, enraged by the display. He can't see anything with the stupid sunglasses on, though, so he risks the pain of the lighting around them and pulls them off, commenting dryly - 

“...Christ, it’s hot here, isn’t?”

* * *

Giles watches as a small craft circles in for a landing sometime after full dark, and is shepherded by ground crew off the runway.

He leaves his car, not nearly as relaxed as he should be after sipping scotch for nearly two hours, and walks briskly towards the plane, now parked - is that the right term, are airplanes "parked?" - just behind the hangar.    
  
The grounds crew have vanished, and there's an eerie quiet as the hum of the jet engines fade into the velvet night. Giles stands in a shadow, and waits.   
  
And waits.   
  
Then nearly jumps out of his skin when a side panel crashes to the tarmac, and a bright yellow emergency slide quickly inflates. Seconds after the bottom of the slide hits the ground, a figure in a tweed coat tumbles from the plane.   
  
Giles stares, too shocked to move. It's been 15 years, but he's fairly certain the man in tweed is not his friend - too tall, too gangly, too -    
  
"So...it's safe then? Excellent."   
  
Giles' eyes are drawn to the new figure framed by the emergency exit, and his heart skips a beat.   
  
Randall.   
  
His Randall.   
Dead for all this time.   
  
Dead, but laughing like a child at a carnival as he slides to the tarmac, sticking the landing with a gymnast's grace.   
  
“Randall...?”   
  
The name sticks on Giles' tongue, as if it were just too big for his mouth to form. He swallows back the bitter scotch flavoured bile rising in the back of his throat, and steps forward, out of the shadow.   
  
“Randall? Is it really you?”

The smile fades from Randall’s face, a little crease appearing at his brow; confusion and heartache and shock pulling his face from that of an overjoyed man tasting his first few seconds of  _ freedom _ to someone who’s suddenly reminded just how much of the world he’s missed. That voice is strange but familiar, the words wrapping around his heart like a vice and squeezing until he thinks his knees might give out. He turns his head, unwillingly, and stares at the source. 

Ripper.

_ His _ Ripper. 

...Though, he’s not really that, is he? His Ripper is only visible in faint traces in the man that stands just a few paces away. His eyes - he remembers those sea-glass coloured eyes. They haunt his fucking dreams - are the same, but everything else is different. It’s not just the touches of time. He’d been expecting that. He hadn’t seen a mirror in decades, but he knows that getting older was part of the deal of LIVING. It’s more than that. The way he holds himself… it’s not the same stance of the easy-going, charismatic, and intense man that he’d met all those years ago. He’s sort of held into himself. Restricted like someone’s bound him in invisible ropes. He’s wrapped in tweed, like one of  _ them _ .    
  
He _is_ one of them.   
  
Another “Watcher”. Just like the men who kept him captive for fifteen years. He’d known that. He knew that it was coming, but he hadn’t realized that seeing was different than imagining. Even knowing who he had ~become, he’d still had visions of leather jackets and half-smoked cigarettes and cocky little smiles that tell him that he knows everything that you don’t want him to.    
  
And the voice.    
  
Randall'd always known the accent was fake, but...well, he loved it anyway.   
  
And his stomach twists. He slides his hand up over his face, to rake his fingers through the mess of curls that went wild during his slide down. He suddenly wants a cigarette.   
  
“...Guess so.”    
  
He says, finally, realizing that he’s been asked a question. He looks past Rip - /him/ - and into the darkness. Watching. Waiting. Ronald’s going to come strolling out at any minute, with that smile on his face. So fucking pleased with himself. Another mind game well won, huh? Well, fuck him. He’s not going to give him the pleasure of letting him know that this got to him. He worked too hard for too long to give in now.   
  
“Where is he, then? Enjoying the show? Not usually such a voyeur… prefers to cause the pain than watch it.”

He’s not keeping it together, very well. He doesn’t know what he looks like; what  _ he _ could be seeing when he looks at Randall. Bruises, maybe. He’s got plenty of them. The newest is still bloomed across his face where Ronald yanked him into the bars of the cage. There are even more under his clothes, scars from every “test” that Ronald put him through; every attempt to force the magic out of him. Vampires bites, cuts from knives, lashes from whips, burns, patterns of anguish from every failure. Dark circles under the eyes that aren’t hidden behind glasses anymore; eyes that are haunted by torment that not even a magical high can numb the sting of.

Now that the shock is starting to recede, Giles can see that Randall doesn't look quite exactly the same as he did...then. Time hasn't been cruel to him, as evident in his golden curls, and the lithe movements of his trim body. But time isn't man's only master...and from Randall's bitter diatribe, Giles has a pretty good idea about who put the bruises in Randall's face.

Giles removes his glasses and reaches for his handkerchief before remembering where he left it last. He instead polishes his glasses with the end of his tie, and in an attempt to reign in the urge to grab his friend in his arms and weep for the lost years, he defaults into his now customary cool formality.   
  
“If you are referring to Mr. Giles, I'm afraid he will not be coming. If I'm not mistaken, he should just be leaving hospital right around now.”

Randall’s heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that it sounds like a war drum, a staccato rhythm, but he forces himself to keep his breathing normal. Slow and steady, maintaining the best air of composure and calm that he can muster, though his fingers still twitch at his sides and he inwardly recoils from that cool, matter-of-fact tone of voice that all Watchers seem to have. He doesn’t know what he was expecting from this. Some kind of joyful reunion? Any visible reaction to his presence at all? He doesn’t even seem that surprised. 

The tattoo on his shoulder, once a symbol of rebellion but now staining his skin as a testament to what a monumental fuckup he’s become, twinges and he suppresses a wince. The last thing he wants to do is appear weak, especially in front of a man that he no longer knows. There’s nothing good or kind in this world, and if he has to exist in it, then he better stay on his guard.    
  
But he can’t speak. His throat is too tight. It’s lucky for Randall that Ben, who’s finally gotten over being tossed down like a ragdoll, overhears the bit about Ronald being in the hospital and steps forward. He’s younger than the two of them, and clearly less experienced than the other Watcher, but he speaks with all the authority he can muster, grabbing Randall by his shoulder and pulling him back away from Rip - fucking christ, what is he supposed to call him, now? - and stepping forward to take charge.    
  
“The hospital?” Ben repeats, his eyes narrowed in a squinty imitation of a “severe” look that doesn’t quite match his face. “I received strict instruction to hand the weapon over to him and him alone. He has to come here. To collect it.”    
  
“It?”

Randall repeats, with more amusement than anger. Ben turns his head to try and glare him to silence and Randall makes a show of pressing ihs lips together, turning his head with a small smirk on his face to signify that he won’t interrupt again. It’s a lie, and they both know it, but whatever helps “Ben” feel more in charge. He likes to let them run the length of their leashes from time to time just to watch when they run out of give and are yanked back by the force of what keeps them bound in the first place. 

They’ve all got some kind of chain, don’t they?   
  
“If he’s not here, then… then… what do we do?”    
  
... _ Huh. Short Chain.  _

Giles replaces his glasses with a sigh.

  
“Mr. Giles is in the hospital because I jammed a pencil through his hand. For lack of frivolous formalities, I believe that puts me in charge of Mr. Evans, mister, ah…”

He trails off, unsure what to call this… this man who’s now the last thing standing between him and Randall.

“To tell the truth, I don't give a bloody rats arse who you are, you sniveling insult to humanity. Go fetch Mr. Evans' belongings, then...go away.”

Giles speaks mildly, but his eyes are sharp as daggers as he turns his disdainful stair onto the tweed-man.   
  
“Well?”

“I...I uh…” 

Ben whirls around to look at Randall, gesturing wildly as though anticipating that he’s going to go up to bat for him and agree that they should wait for further instruction from the Council, since the man standing before them has given orders that negate the entire point of why they were there in the first place. And, when Randall just stares back at him, he gives a little whine of aggravation, completely losing his faux air of command.   
  
“ _ Randall _ . This is going to reflect poorly on both of us. The Council will be furious if I hand you off to a stranger! I don’t even know who this is.”   
  
That makes two of them. Randall feels like he’s just gotten whiplash, watching this man switch back and forth between the intensity and anger of the man he’d once considered his best friend and the cool, unattached professionalism of a  _ Watcher _ . It’s not doing much to loosen the vice around his heart.

“I don’t know what you want _me_ to do about it. I’m just the lowly weapon. The subtle complexities of Council Politics go right over my head. But… it does sound to me like you’ve been given an idea of what to do. Should I repeat it? Maybe you misheard him.”

His eyes flash gold. It’s just a warning. No matter who Ripper is now, or what it is that’s going to happen once the Council is back ‘cross the pond, it’s not like it can be much worse than the last two decades. And Ben can either choose to follow orders, or he can have that choice ripped away from him. Simple, really.   
  
Sensing a lost battle, Ben flinches back away from Randall and starts toward the plane, where the pilot has been trying to lower the stairs from the actual entrance hatch and leaves the two of them alone. 

Well, as alone as they can be for the time being.

  
Randall lifts his gaze, wishing now more than  _ ever _ that he'd just stayed dead all those years ago. There was no torture like that of awkward tension in the air. And he says the only thing he can think to say.   
  
“So… you stabbed him, huh?”

Giles offers Randall a crooked, half embarrassed, half proud smile.

“The bastard resurrected you, hid you for 15 years, made me believe you were dead the whole time, and then tried to refuse to tell me your flight arrival time. It was the least I could do, really.”

Randall tsks his tongue, sadly, some of the humour fading from his eyes. He'd assumed that Ronald had taken a swing at him or something. It makes him feel...strange that he had any part in the reasoning why he'd done it.

“...You don't even know the half of it.”   
  
He says, after a moment, looking back to the plane. There's something else to be annoyed by. Ronald usually gave the whole speech; lingering on the details. Figures, this'd be the time  _ he _ has to tell the story. But, not now. He doesn't feel like dredging it up in a California airport.    
  
So, he just reaches out and pats him appreciatively on the arm. All the contact he feels brave enough to initiate, unsure what the hell else to do.   
  
“Good on you, though.”

Giles looks between Randall, his patted arm, and his friend again, a cautious curiosity in his eyes.  He starts to ask a question and thinks better of it. The sudden desire to be anywhere in the world except right there is overwhelming.

“C'mon, my car's just over there.”   
  
Giles tilts his head in the right direction.   
  
“Do you need your things right now, or shall we go and let...yon master Tweedness figure out what to do with them? I...well, I hope you'll allow me the pleasure of hosting you, at least until you get settled in.”

Giles realizes his presumption may not be welcome - how could he possibly know what Randall (He refuses to even think about him as "the weapon" or a monster until he knows far more about what the hell's been going on) would prefer?

“Or, if you'd rather your privacy, there is a perfectly acceptable hotel on the way into town. There's not even a number in the name…” He smiles wryly at his own sad attempt of a joke.

“I've been living in a cage for the last fifteen years. You could leave me a box under a bridge and it'd be a step up from that.”

Randall’s tone is casual, too numb to the horror to even remember what's considered "shocking" and what's just average to his life, now. Honestly, he'd been expecting about the same when he arrived here. Another dark room that he's locked away in. Day in and day out.

“But... seeing as I have no idea where the hell I am, I don't mind following you around. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Randall casts him a glance, waiting to see if there's any upset in his expression when he says that; to tell him if that was a  _ real  _ offer or one made out of the need to be polite. He's not sure. He can't read him like he used to. It's like someone scrubbed the writing off of the wall and he's just staring where it used to be, pretending that there's still anything to see.

_ A...a cage? _

Oh, how Giles regrets only using a pencil on Ronald.

While still maintaining a stiff upper lip, Giles’ eyes reveal the cracks in the facade, proving the genuine quality of the invite, and hinting at so much more beneath the thick layer of manners and politeness. 

“I truly do not mind. I…”

Something sticks in his throat, and Giles has to cough, just a little, to clear it.   
  
“No, I don't mind at all.”

“Well...then, I guess I'll go wherever you lead.”

It's the safest answer Randall can think of. Part of him is still wondering if this is some kind of test. It wouldn't surprise him, really. Ronald has devised some horribly mind-fucking challenges in the past that left him mentally scarred in ways that he still has yet to understand. And as much as he wants to believe in this, he has to be on his guard against it. Showing too much excitement or too much negativity could be his downfall in either direction. He's straddling the line until he better understands what's happening around him, and gestures for him to lead on. It's not like he has any idea where he's going.    
  
And it's even less like he needs the "things" that Ben is getting for him. None of them actually belong to him. Just another set of pretty chains, courtesy of the watcher's council and disguised as "civilian clothes" like it makes up for the torture.   
  
“Lead on, Virgil.”   
  
And welcome him to the new hell. He’s going to need all the luck he can get.


End file.
